Five Hours to Broken Arrow
by Sunny33
Summary: "I swear to God, I will hunt you down and I will kill you."  That's what he said. That's what he said before he killed my brother.  Hurt!Dean  Soul!Sam.  Covers seasons 1-6 so beware spoilers.  Language, violence, blood and gore people.  Should be gooood
1. Chapter 1

**Five Hours to Broken Arrow**

**SN**

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Sam reached for his cell, screwing up his eyes at the glare from the digital clock on the nightstand. 3.15am. He glanced at the number. Unknown.

"It's Sam."

"Uh…yeah. If that's Sam Winchester, then this…Jennifer Blain just outside Tul – a."

Sam recognized the hunter's voice immediately, but frowned at the bad reception he was getting. He snaked out from under the covers and stood near the window, as if that would help.

"…your brother at a town crossroads."

"Yeah?" He grabbed an envelope. Fumbled a pen into place. Scribbled down the details.

"…six one, kinda broad, fair…doubled back…looked like he was hitchin' or somethin'. I couldn't pick him up…job to get - "

"Did he see you, did he…recognize you?"

"He didn't see me." She replied. Then, "I thought long and hard about calling you with this to be honest…"

"No, no, I'm glad you did, Jennifer. Seriously."

After the call, he dry scrubbed his face and dropped his shoulders.

Five hours to Broken Arrow.

At this time in the morning he could make it in four.

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Two days earlier:

Pain and fear. It ebbed away.

He became aware of a warm hand clasping the back of his neck. The thumb smoothing his cheekbone in rhythmic comfort.

"Hey, Dean," Sam's voice. Quiet and reassuring. Dean clung onto it. Honed in on the tone, the inflections, the light breath that accompanied the words. Imagined the long reach. The mass of hair flopping over his eyes to look down at him.

"Sam…"

No answer.

"Be..be careful. It's bad…"

Pretty stupid thing to say actually. Sam would have already seen how bad the situation was. Would have seen the physical state Dean was in. Would have seen the wires tying him down onto the workbench.

The scalded left hand…the skin already swollen and stretched. His bruised abdomen and cracked ribs that stabbed and tortured him with every movement. Every breath.

His bust up nose. His gravel-scraped thigh shining slick through his torn jeans.

Yes. This could never be described as Dean's finest hour. But it was a better hour. Now that Sam was here.

The hand left his neck and Dean moved his head to follow it.

But when he opened his eyes – it wasn't Sam's back that retreated into the murk of the warehouse.

Because it wasn't Sam.

A gradual feeling of dread filled his stomach and made him dry swallow the mix of disappointment and shame he felt at being deceived. Again.

"Sam ain't here right now." The man said quietly. "Not until I tell him to," he added. As if to himself.

The man turned back into the glow of the single, nervous light bulb illuminating Dean's suffering. He was stout, but fit. Those hours in the gym had certainly paid off. The bloodied t shirt he wore stretched at his biceps. Handsome in his own way. Wide expressive eyes.

Big hands carried a bolt cutter. Dean inhaled and tried desperately not to stare at them.

"It's cool, bro'. I'm not gonna use them against you." He soothed. A gentle smile.

"I'm…I'm not your brother." The smile disappeared as he approached the work bench. He leaned down into Dean's personal space.

"That's right. Because I don't have a brother." The man let the bolt cutters lean on Dean's raw-skinned thigh, making him flinch and shiver.

"And why don't I have a brother, Dean?" he asked, the weight of the bolt cutters dragging now.

His brain a scrambled mess, Dean couldn't actually remember why this psycho didn't have a brother.

"Go fuck yourself is why," Dean blurted out. He closed his eyes and turned his face away – waiting for the onslaught.

But it didn't come.

Instead, Dean could feel the cold steel of the bolt cutters jam into his wrists as they snapped the wires around his right hand. The man moved around to the other side of the bench, and cut the wires holding Dean's other hand.

The wires around his ankles sliced like butter under the weight of the cutters.

The man stood admiring his handy work for a beat, before turning back to face his captive.

" There. All better now," he said lightly. "It's a little known fact that when a brain suffers a period of unconsciousness, it wipes the memory immediately before the trauma, and to some extent, the painful period afterwards."

He placed the cutters against the corrugated tin wall of the warehouse.

"So, in theory, you won't remember why I don't have a brother." He reached for Dean's shirt, grasping a handful, he forced Dean into a sitting position, and then dragged him off the bench. "So, I'll tell you again."

Dean flinched, through grit-teeth pain and forced his legs to hold him up.

"See, once upon a time, I had a Mom and a Dad and a big brother called Cal. And we all lived in a nice big house in a nice little town…"

Powerful arms forced Dean back against the wall. One giant hand around Dean's neck. With the other, he reached towards a huge water barrel and ripped off its lid.

"…and one day, six years ago this month as it happens...while my family were sitting at the dinner table, minding their own sweet business, John McGillicuddy broke into my house and blasted my parents with a sawn off shotgun."

Dean returned the hateful stare boring into him, with his own.

"And then he chased my injured and bleeding brother, out into the yard. And then he called me, using Cal's cell so I'd think it was him. And do you remember what he told me, Dean..?"

"Bring in some milk..?" Dean snarked.

If hate was a color, it was the blackest black that this guy poured upon him now. Dean braced himself against the force of what was coming.

"Jeremy Krane…if that's Jeremy Krane, I swear to God, I will hunt you down and I will kill you," He spat out. " That's what he said. That's what he said before he killed my brother."

Dean maintained eye contact with wild eyes that no longer saw through the pain and fury they expressed. And for a moment…for one tiny beat, Dean saw Jeremy's face crumble and change. As if the memory was cutting him ragged and deep, for the first time.

And then he composed himself, with a tighter grip on Dean's neck.

To Dean's surprise, he appeared to be waiting for something.

So, he obliged.

"I'm…I'm not sorry." Dean whispered.

What happened next was lightening quick in its ferocity.

And then he knew he was drowning. Knew the weight on his head and neck was forcing his head down into the water barrel. His left hand, swollen and useless, his right hand pathetically trying to push back.

And he knew it wouldn't be long before he lost it.

Not long at all…

SN

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**TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

**Five Hours to Broken Arrow**

**Chapter 2**

"Rumble strip!" Dean shouted…

Sam jolted awake – pulled the wheel a little too much to the left – frightened the crap out of an oncoming vehicle who vehemently blasted his horn in retaliation.

His heart kicked out a quickened beat – so he slowed down to park at the side of the road to collect himself for a moment.

He pulled out his cell. Flipped the numbers until he saw Jennifer's.

He had a hundred questions he should have damn well asked her at the time. But he guessed a follow up chat at 4:40am wouldn't exactly be appreciated. He folded his cell and put it away.

One hour, forty minutes. That's how much he'd slept over the past two days. No wonder he was dozing off at the wheel.

Still, things were looking up. The first sighting of Dean in…well, in two days.

It was the Shapeshifters.

He knew it like he knew his brother was in terrible danger.

He'd waited for nearly two hours for Dean to pick him up outside the Library. He'd sat on the bench in the town Main Street just as Dean had suggested he do. He'd even snagged a bottle of Soda in the cool of the afternoon.

After six calls to Dean's cell he'd gone into the Library just to check with the assistant.

The guy had huffed at the prospect of standing up and walking all the way to the counter to speak to Sam like it was a three mile hike.

"Uh…Hi again. I'm waiting for my brother and I've been hanging outside –"

"Yeah, and then you waited inside, and then he came in and then you both left," he'd interrupted sarcastically.

"Er…well, no. I'm…I'm still waiting for him."

The guy pursed his lips. "Look, champ – no offense, but you aren't that hard to miss. You might have forgotten, but you came back here and waited for your brother over there." Sam followed the man's nod towards a set of chairs in the corner. "You had a chat, you both left. There ain't no more."

Sam's blood chilled immediately.

"Listen, would you mind telling me what…what he looked like. This…this guy?"

The Librarian raised his eyebrows. "Your brother?"

"Yes. My brother," Sam snapped back.

"Fair hair. Couple of inches shorter than you. Olive green jacket…I dunno."

Sam jolted awake. Again.

He glanced at the time. 5:15am.

Thirty minutes.

Better than nothing.

He rubbed his eyes and turned the key to start the car.

Just over two hours to Broken Arrow.

He'd try for one and a half.

Two days earlier:

Silence.

Dean decided he preferred the silence.

Jeremy Psycho was taking a coffee break. Hopefully a long one.

And while concrete floors were never very good for conducting noise, he couldn't even hear the sound of traffic, or planes or even a train from outside.

He did think he'd heard a cock crow once. But that could've been a dream. Or a nightmare.

His left hand stung like a bitch, but with his good hand, he braced for the pain, and pushed himself up into a sitting position. No one heard him groan. His new elevated position seemed like a privilege and he allowed himself a sly grin at the achievement.

The room was packed to the rafters with…with stuff.

Old and broken furniture, chairs, bedsteads, wardrobes, stacks of papers, an old refrigerator, magazines, books. Wire shelves, wooden stands, high chairs and what looked like a baby cot. Above all that, the rafters hung heavy with spiders webs and years of grime.

There was a work bench, bolted to the floor, a ragged blanket in the corner and the water barrel in the other.

The floor around it was still wet. Bits of sawdust floated in pink puddles of water and blood.

The bastard probably tried to drown him. His jeans were still wet. Either that, or he'd pissed himself.

The high slit window offered a dim light and he squinted up at the cloudy sky outside. A shiver ran through him along with a sudden onset of exhaustion.

He looked over towards the blanket and wondered if it was worth dragging himself over there to get it before Crazy Krane returned.

Krane.

The name didn't ring any bells. Nothing in Dad's journal, but then he did say Dad had attacked his family six years ago. That would be a few months before Dad died.

Sam would know.

He considered the assortment of furniture and junk banked dangerously high against the wall and wondered how he'd never noticed any of it before. Plenty there to scavenge from and break into smaller, weapon-shaped items.

But not now.

In his mind he wanted to energetically kick Jeremy's ass every time he had the misfortune to see him. But his body felt nothing but apathy and weakness.

A combination of raw violence and starvation probably.

He turned to gaze at the blanket again. Somehow, it just seemed too far away. Instead he leaned over and lay down onto the cement floor. His hand stung, his ribs ached and his head thumped, but he just had to rest for a while…just a little while…

"DEAN!" Sam roared.

Two hands around Dean's face, jostled his bones, strained his muscles.

"What are you doing!" Sam shouted. Spittle and breath making Dean blink hard.

"Wha…what?"

"No rest for the wicked, dude," he boomed, letting Dean's head drop back hard onto the workbench. "And boy, you is wicked."

Dean quickly orientated himself.

He was back on the workbench. Face up to the rafters. Arms down by his side.

Only he wasn't wire- tied to it, like last time. In fact, his right arm was free.

Sam stood up straight and stepped back.

As he did so, his entire form changed back into Jeremy. A silver light of change, as smooth and graceful as liquid.

The sight of it made Dean hold his breath.

And it wasn't until Jeremy gestured towards Dean's left arm that he noticed the pain. The unremitting, gnawing ache of it.

He raised his head and looked down at his hand.

"Isn't she beautiful?" Jeremy grinned.

"Was gonna shell out for some hand cuffs but then thought, 'what the hell, let's break out the ol' gal and put her to work."

Dean gasped in realization. His arm was trapped inside a steel box vice.

Smooth edges bit into soft flesh, tender nerves and crumbling bone. The pain emanating from it was agonizing.

"It's the one my Dad used to fix our skateboards, " Jeremy added cheerfully.

"I'm sure he'd be proud," Dean gritted out.

Jeremy nodded in complete agreement.

"Anyhoo…" He turned back and reached into an old hessian sack on the floor by the door.

"…I gotta dash. But don't think I'm forgetting you, bro',"

Dean closed his eyes. Beads of sweat slid down his temples and dripped onto the bench.

When he opened them – he saw Jeremy holding a fine tooth hack saw. Obviously another family heirloom, the way he was gazing at it.

Dean felt the urge to laugh.

This day was just getting better.

This twisted, psychotic, shape shifting bastard was going to start sawing limbs off. When, or…let's face it, if Sam ever came across the remains, he imagined a little heap of arms and legs atop a bloodied and battered torso.

He swallowed hard and licked his lips. No point in going out feeble.

"So, what now, Jeremy? You think you've got the balls to saw my arm off?"

The shapeshifter flicked his gaze away from the hack saw and approached the bench.

"Hell, no," he said with a snort. "You can do that yourself." He laid the hack saw onto Dean's chest.

"I'm outta town for a few days," and with that he flipped Dean's cell out from his back pocket. "I got me a little brother to hunt."

"Jeremy…!"

He approached the door, unlocked it and turned back to look at Dean.

As he did so, the silver light engulfed him again – revealing a shapely, but small woman. She flicked her dark hair and waited for Dean to recognize her.

He blinked hard at her familiar features.

He knew her. Or knew the person that Jeremy had shifted into.

Jamie…no…Jane or Jemma or…

She was a hunter.

Got into the business when her Mom was killed by a Rugaru.

Jerry…or Jennifer.

Jennifer Blain.

The bastard had shifted into…

"Jennifer Blain," Dean rasped.

Jennifer lifted her hand and blew him a kiss.

Then she smiled, and left the room.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"Sam..! I think I've found - "

Sam slammed the trunk down on the Nova and turned away from the noise of the rush hour traffic.

"What?"

"…sure it's him. He looks sick, like – conf…something –"

"Jennifer, where are you?" Sam cut in. Damn the reception he was getting lately.

"…Harper…on his trail – get…before the police do – "

Call ended.

"Shit!" Sam hissed, his finger already white on the call button.

Sounded like she'd tracked him somewhere. Must be pretty sure to contact him like this. Maybe her hunt had veered into Shapeshifter territory.

He looks sick.

It was the only fucking sentence that made sense. What kind of sick? Dazed and confused sick? Or shot and limping sick?

The call continued to ring out. No answer. No voicemail.

He fired off a text, emphasizing words like Shapeshifter and co ordinates. He drew in a sigh. In hindsight, Jennifer was doing the right thing by only observing Dean and not approaching him.

She couldn't really be described as a friend. She'd only met Dean twice in the last four years. Apart from the odd text giving them the heads up on nearby hunts, Jennifer kept the kind of professional distance that capable, independent hunters preferred. Amazing she'd recognized him.

As grateful as he was for her assistance, her call had only ramped up the level of stress he now felt. It washed away any comfort he'd gained from being in the same city as Dean.

He turned into the wind and made for the Diner across the street.

There would be somewhere or some building with the word 'Harper' in it. He'd research the shit out of this city on the lap top, and then he'd go find his brother.

One day earlier

He was on a pin head.

If he moved his arms or his legs, or breathed too hard, or flexed his ankle, or lifted an eyebrow, if he moved anything at all – he'd fall. He'd fall so long and hard, that the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach would never end, and when he hit the ground…

At first he shouted.

Waited for moisture to enter his throat and then shouted again.

No one came.

He painfully twisted onto his left side, feeling underneath the vice for the crank, the pull on his trapped arm digging into him like a slow, determined bite.

It wasn't there.

The bastard had taken it with him.

He tried to break the saw, find a thin piece he could use as a crank. The force it took to snap the blade only catapulted it out of his grip and it fell onto the floor.

The weak light from the high window had come and gone, and something crawled on his skin in the darkness.

But by then, he couldn't move. 'Cos then he'd fall.

And it wasn't rose petals and clover he'd be falling into either.

Tentacles of fire reached up to scar him. The incessant heat made him even weaker. Bloodied spikes and huge thorns lay to ensnare him. He could see them reaching up to stab into soft flesh and muscle.

He told Sam. Warned him that Jeremy could come back at any time.

But Sam just smiled and turned out of his line of sight.

He told Dad. Admitted being duped by Shifter Sam in the first place.

But Dad just frowned. "Get up, Dean," he growled. "There is no pin head. No fire, no thorns. It's all in your mind, son."

What did he know.

It wasn't until the first threads of light fell into the room that Dean became aware of someone standing beside him.

A cool hand brushed his temple, like a father checking a child's temperature. Tentative. Like he knew the danger.

"Don't move," Dean whispered. " Don't…" Just saying those words…he could feel it…feel himself tilting.

But whoever it was wasn't listening. Couldn't see that Dean was literally on the edge.

Whoever it was pulled at his arm in the vice - made the blood spill out and streak up his arm – like a hot dagger, poking and scarring tissue and slicing tendons - made him scream and scream until he tipped over the edge…

…and then he fell.

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Bobby flipped the burgers and pushed the onions around the pan.

Behind him, the table groaned with books and ledgers. His lap top cooling after a day's hard work.

The familiar tone of the phone prompted him to dim the gas and he wiped a greasy hand down his jeans before reaching for it.

"Bob- just checking in…" Sam's voice over bad reception.

Bobby hated cell phones. Sure they were convenient, hell they'd certainly saved his life a time or two. But, for important conversation, when details were important, you really couldn't beat a land line.

Sam clearly wasn't using a land line.

"You're breaking up, Sam," he informed, glancing back towards the stove.

"-meeting Jennifer at…saw Dean. Bobby, it's sh – know it…"

"Say again?"

"-Arrow…get him home –"

"Sam, I'm getting every third word. Who's Jennifer?"

The old man clucked at the fragile contact and then swore loudly when the phone went dead.

Still, the kid sounded psyched. Which meant he was hot on Dean's trail.

And that was a good thing.

Bobby turned back to the stove. It had gone out.

He considered the burgers lying limp in the pan before reaching out towards the pan handle.

And then…he stood still. Very still. His eye darted across the work top scanning for knives or a meat hammer. Anything. He'd be happy for anything sharp or heavy, right about now.

Because there was someone behind him…

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

The call continued to ring out.

Sam was out of reach.

Bobby frowned as he watched Castiel lay Dean onto the sofa bed.

The kid looked beat up and spat out.

"Where the hell was he?" Bobby said. He watched Castiel lift Dean's burnt hand and examine it, like a child.

"Trapped. Someone had purposely trapped him. " As he spoke Bobby deftly moved around his kitchen gathering items. A bowl of water, a clean cloth, his med kit. He pushed the angel aside and sat down beside the unconscious hunter.

Both eyes blackened, a burn to his left hand, now seeping and raw. Cheekbones prominent, his skin dry and pale, his leg torn and dried black with blood and grit. The smell of sweat and piss rose up to meet Bobby and he pressed his wrist against his nose for a beat.

"Did you get him? Did you see the bastard that…"

Castiel shifted his gaze from Dean.

"No one was there. Dean was alone."

Bobby smoothed Dean's brow and felt his pulse. The fever would be from the burn infection. The high pulse was the result of the fever. His entire left side was mottled with bruise upon bruise. He looked gaunt and dehydrated.

Bobby stopped his examination and turned back to Castiel.

"Grateful as I am that you got him here…you're gonna fix hi- "

He looked back at an empty room. The angel was gone.

No one was going to fix Dean Winchester.

Just him.

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No signal.

Sam cursed under his breath and glanced at his watch.

This whole thing was jacked.

He doubted he'd even recognize this Jennifer chick.

Didn't even know why he'd agreed to meet. Just the fact that she'd spotted Dean in the area should be enough for him to begin his own investigation. Instead he'd already lost an hour of his life he and Dean could ill afford.

The dust blew up from the derelict yard and made him squint at the dull colored pick up that swung through the gates. It stopped as if the driver was surprised to actually see him, and then rolled to park nearby.

Jennifer hopped out from behind the wheel but left the door open and the engine still on.

Sam recognized her straight away.

"Hey, Sam," she said.

"Jennifer, " he pressed a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Thanks for coming. So, what's the story?"

Jennifer hesitated.

"The story?" she asked. "Ain't no story I got to tell…I don't think."

"Uh…yeah, the one about Dean. You called me here for the lead."

Jennifer suddenly looked scared. Her eyes flicking around behind Sam. Unsettled and ready.

"Okay. When…when did I call you?"

Sam stilled. His shoulders dropped. "You didn't call me."

"The Vermont Vamp's nest was the last time…and that was two years ago."

Sam glanced around them, suddenly aware of the potential for catastrophe here.

"Okay, it's a set up. Jennifer, I'm on a case involving a gold standard shapeshifter…I thought you'd seen…I mean, I…" He stopped himself from telling her. Couldn't be sure.

She studied him hard. Crossed her arms.

"Where's Dean?"

"Another case. We split up if the jobs come too fast."

"You answered that one too quick, dude."

"What?"

"Nothin'. She sensed his hesitation. "You don't wanna tell me, that's fine. And for your information, you called me twice. Told me you and Dean had a big Silkie thing goin' on and you needed more ammo..?"

Sam shook his head.

"It…it sounded like just like you."

"You and me…we must've met him…it before. He's obviously one of the new breed that can shift without killing. Dean and I had a case like that a few months back. I just…I…" Sam trailed off.

There were no signals. No signs. This could be the shape shifter standing right in front of him.

If it was, it wasn't going to tell him where Dean was. In fact, it might have already killed him and be looking to capture Sam to complete the Winchester set. He could pull out his knife and slit its throat right there in the yard.

On the other hand, it could just be Jennifer…

He dry scrubbed his face and sighed.

"Looks like we've both been had," he said casually.

"Yeah…" Not so confident now. No doubt she was thinking the same thing.

In unison, both hunters took a step back.

"No harm done," she said, tense and unsmiling.

"Good to see you're…still going strong," he smiled, raising a hand and half turning. Jennifer scanned the deserted yard one more time then, stepped back towards the open door of her pick up.

Sam watched her slide up onto the seat. She nodded once, then closed the door. Jammed the gearbox into reverse.

"Fuck," Sam muttered to himself. His heart was beating somewhere around his throat, but he felt he'd kept a casual enough pose.

His cell jumped into life and the moment it took him to glance at the screen was enough time for Jennifer to lift the gun up onto the door sill.

One shot.

And Sam Winchester was down.

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"Don't touch me..! Don't…!"

Wild fists flew out at Bobby, his own hands grasping to avoid the heavily bandaged hand flicking out at him like a scene from a Sam Peckinpah film.

Cool water splashed on hot skin and clean sheets. Dean, wild eyed and staring. But not at Bobby.

"Dean! Dean, it's me. Come on, son." He kept an eye on the cannula in Dean's good arm…now hanging by a thread. At least the fluid had brought him around…kind of…

Dean arched his back to buck off Bobby's weight. "Get off me…piece of shit..! " It was clear to Bobby that Dean wasn't in a safe place…in his mind.

"M'okay…I'm gonna –"

Bobby dodged a head butt, then another – his own arms beginning to weaken against the hyped up strength of a delirious man.

God, how he wished Sam was here.

Spent and muscle-tensed, Dean stilled for a second. A hot breath wheezed out from him in his grit-teeth pain. The heat that sparked off him was unbelievable. The last hunter Bobby had seen this bad had died before sunrise.

"Dean," he said softly, quietly. "Have to tell you…I'm getting too old for this, I ain't got much left, here. You gotta calm down. You're out of there. Castiel brought you back. You're safe -"

Eye contact. At last. Bobby raised his eyebrows in anticipation.

"Sam? Sam!" A broken voice. "Don't come here. He's…" It was the voice of someone cracked and sore. A tear streaked down Dean's temple and his chest heaved with a sob that almost undid Bobby. He wasn't going to finish the sentence. The death grip on Bobby's shirt slackened and fell. Heavy lids sunk over bloodshot eyes.

He sighed and squeezed Dean's hand before getting up from the edge of the bed.

Time to try Sam again.

The phone was ringing before he even got there.

"Hello?"

Silence.

"Hello?"

More silence. Someone was there. Bobby knew it.

"Dean? Is this Dean Winchester?" An unknown voice. Male. Bobby searched his brain for recognition.

"It might be."

"Well, maybe you know him, then…"

More silence.

"I have some information he might want to hear," the voice continued.

A silent beat.

"Who is this?" Bobby snapped impatiently.

"Dean Winchester knows who I am," the voice said.

Bobby nodded as if the caller could see him.

"Tell him, Sam Winchester came looking for his brother today and now he's dead. Tell him, I swear to God, I will hunt him down and I will kill him."

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Bobby rubbed his eyes and downed the last of the coffee in a now cold cup.

His gaze rested on the sleeping Winchester. The last Winchester, if reports were to be believed.

He closed his eyes and imagined how he'd break the news to Dean. He'd have to wait to see what mental state the kid woke up in first, of course. Hopefully not a combatant one. And if he had no grasp of reality, there'd be little point in telling him anything.

Feeling restless, he got up and approached his desk. It would help if he had something to give Dean. Like a lead or a name or a…

He stopped dead. Breathed in a cleansing sigh, and turned slowly.

"Castiel. It's…it's Bobby…Singer. I need your help. Dean needs your help…" He trailed off.

Nothing but silence and the sound of Dean's rhythmic breathing.

"Castiel," louder. "Sam is…he's…" He couldn't say it.

Not even on that cold and dreary night when Sam had lain dead on that filthy mattress in Cold Oak. Not even when the kid had somersaulted into the fiery pit with the Archangel Michael could he actually verbalize that concept. Not even to Dean.

He dropped his shoulders and wandered back towards his chair and sat down – only to see Dean watching him.

Bobby stilled.

"Hey."

Dean opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Bobby scooted over beside him, pressed a hand across his forehead, making Dean blink like a child.

"You still got a fever. How you feelin'?"

For a moment, Bobby thought he couldn't speak. He'd gotten so hot his brain had fried.

He smoothed a hand down the back of Dean's neck to offer him some water. Watched him sip slowly, and awkwardly, a trickle of liquid collecting in the well of his throat.

"What do you remember?" Bobby concentrated on mopping the water from Dean's throat.

"Shape…shape shifting bastard," he croaked. He frowned and tried to lift his left arm, the bruising from the vice a vivid badge of endurance.

"You remember how he got you?"

Dean shook his head. "Revenge. He wants revenge for, for what Dad did."

"Your Dad?" Bobby questioned. Even then he could see Dean's eyes searching the room behind Bobby.

"Killed his family. Guy's been looking for him ever since," he licked his lips and frowned. "Where's Sam? Who got me out?"

Bobby shifted his gaze down to the bandage on Dean's hand, started to untie it.

"Castiel found you. Brought you here last night. Shape shifter really worked you over," he fidgeted with the safety pin instead of making eye contact. "This guy…he give anything else away?"

No answer. He withered under Dean's gaze.

"Is Sam here?"

Bobby shook his head as if trying to dislodge a nasty thought.

"No, he…he went lookin' for you."

Dean nodded. It was the expected answer after all. It's what Dean would've done for Sam. No hesitation.

"Dean, I – "

"He's coming back, right? He knows I'm here."

Bobby rubbed the back of his neck and leant hard on his knees.

"He called me to say he'd gotten a lead. He was meeting someone he knew, but the call was all broke up…"

Dean was hanging on his every word. Bobby could hardly continue.

"Look, you…you gotta rest, son. You've been real sick."

No answer. Dean lifted his hand and grasped at Bobby's sleeve. No words.

He couldn't stop now. He could feel the panic welling up in the kid already. This wasn't going well. None of the scenarios he'd imagined had gone well either but this…this was tortuous.

"Dean, I think…I think he called me today."

"Who? Sam called you?"

"No, the shape shifter. He called to tell you..." Not yet. Not yet.

"He said he was coming to get you."

But Dean knew that wasn't it.

"Called to tell me what, Bobby?"

Bobby looked right at him. Whatever happened next, at least the kid deserved to know.

"To tell you Sam was dead. He said Sam had come looking for you and now he's dead."

SN

SN

SN

SN

One time, when Dean was 16 and he was 12, Sam had sneaked out of the motel and hot footed it down to an idling bus and hopped on.

Didn't even look at the destination either.

Didn't care. Just wanted to go…

Dean was sleeping, the day was still young and promising and the heat seeped into every crevice of his body and made him sweat with frustration and anger.

Four dollars was all he had. Was all he needed.

That sudden, childish impulse had turned into an experiment on surviving in Midwest America on nothing more than your wits and intuition. Usually Dean had enough of that for the both of them.

And then it had ended. Dad showed him the back seat of the car and then Dad and Dean had sat in bilateral silent fury in the front with the radio on to drown out the shouts that should've been.

After the screaming lectures, the pointed fingers and the customary threats – Sam had wandered belligerently into the back yard of the empty house they'd commandeered.

Hadn't even noticed Dean sitting with his back up against the wall, watching Sam kick dirt with faded trainers.

He'd scowled hard at Dean, just waiting for him to say something. It was just going to be an updated version of what Dad had just yelled and he could do without it.

But nothing like that had happened.

Instead, Dad's voice barked out Dean's name. There had been a beat, and then a dull sick feeling had hit Sam's stomach, as he'd watched Dean slowly get up and turn to go inside.

And he didn't want him to go.

Because he knew, and Dean knew exactly what was going to happen next. And it couldn't be avoided and it couldn't be fixed either.

It was the look on Dean's face that had cut him.

His expressive eyes, trying to hide it. Trying to hide the fear.

In that little moment, Dean had revealed himself a knotted ball of anxiety and dread and for the first time Sam actually understood. Realized that he'd abandoned things like responsibility and duty, and consideration when he'd sneaked off into his urban wonderland odyssey two weeks earlier.

What burned even harder was the noise of Dean answering quietly and firmly to an enraged and almost out of control father and the unbearable feelings of helplessness and regret.

But that's what Sam was listening to now.

It was Dean's voice…in the other room. A voice that was breaking with stress and exhaustion…

He was suffering physically. Intermittent screams followed by gasping sobs.

Someone was torturing him and Sam was useless and that feeling was back in the pit of his stomach. That sick, uneasy knowledge that something was happening and there was nothing, nothing he could do about it.

Because no matter how he tried…Sam couldn't move.

TBC.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

He didn't know how it happened.

He felt fine.

Packed the battered blue Torino Bobby had offered him. Refused the food and beer Bobby had offered him.

The nausea had almost gone and he was ready to go.

But the car door handle had moved. It had.

He'd reached out for it – and the next thing he knew he was staring up at the damn thing, had his head on Bobby's chest with the old man tapping his face and calling his name.

"It's stupid and dangerous and Sam ain't gonna thank you for it!" Bobby bitched later, as Dean grasped onto the kitchen sink, a wet cloth draped over his neck.

"It's not thanks I'm looking for."

"We don't even know that it's Broken Arrow, for God's sake…coulda been part of a company name – "

"He'll call again, " he said, cutting Bobby off his rant. "Sam's alive. That monster wants me to come get him. He'll call again."

Bobby searched Dean's face for signs of second thoughts.

"So, you're gonna wait till he does, right? If he's gonna spill his guts anyway, what's the use in careering off in the wrong direction?"

Dean closed his eyes. Wished Bobby would just shut the fuck up. He was like this once before. At Cold Oak. Relentless. A persistent blah he could do without.

Seemed like a lifetime ago. The pain always returns though. In moments like this.

A wave of chaos caught him and his left knee buckled, but he caught himself immediately despite Bobby's flinch and eventual sigh of exasperation.

Then the phone rang…

SN

SN

SN

Christ, it was relentless.

He just never stopped…

Never stopped moving. Never stopped talking.

"Now, let's say, your Dad brought someone home from work, and he'd stayed for dinner. And your Mom had to split the meal she'd already made into five and then they'd shared a few beers together in the kitchen while you watched TV in the lounge. Did you ever have that happen to you, Sam? " Jeremy asked. Eyes shining bright. Manic.

Sam licked his lips and answered the same way he'd answered for the last thirty questions.

"No."

"…and then, your big brother looks out the window and announces that it's been snowing for the past two hours and everyone rushes to look outside. And it's all clean and bright and silent… Did that ever happen when you were a kid?"

"No."

His eyes slid over to where the voice was coming from. But he couldn't see that well. A dim, blurred film distorted his sight and made him blink.

"And then your Mum says something like, 'Oh Evan, come on, ain't no way we can let the man drive home in this.' And she laughs a little as she says, 'He'll get stranded and you'll only have to spend the rest of the night digging him out.' He looks at Sam, expectantly. Waiting for an answer.

No response.

Jeremy's expression changes. A definite slide from cheerful to car crash serious.

"…and your Dad's friend…he makes a show of not wanting to put anyone out. Hell, he's driven in weather like this all his life…"

Sam was missing whole tracts of this. His lungs felt like they were imploding.

It was drugs. The bag of milky fluid hanging from a makeshift drip stand had a drip line that snaked its way down to some convenient vein Sam couldn't see. A muscle relaxant, Sam guessed. Probably what was slowly paralyzing his lungs.

"…and before you know it, you've got your big brother bitchin' atcha' because you're taking up all the duvet because your Dad's friend is sleeping in your bed in your room." He slapped a sweaty hand onto Sam's shoulder. "Now, that must of happened at least once in your life, surely…"

Breathing in was the worst. It was like sucking treacle with a straw.

Jeremy never noticed.

What the fuck was he on about? Sam swung his gaze around towards him again. The built young man who'd politely introduced himself as Jeremy but had viciously lashed Sam to the table. No blood on his clothes. Clean nails. Clean shoes. No sign of the torture Sam could still hear in his mind. Was Dean still there? Still alive?

Jeremy startled out of his memory and turned back towards him.

"Hey…what's with the frowny face, bro'?" The sudden concern in his voice made Sam narrow his eyes.

Sarcastic bastard.

He took time to draw in what he'd hoped would be a sufficient breath.

"I'm…I'm not –"

"Shut up! Shut the fuck up with the 'I'm not your brother'' shit..!" he screamed. The explosion was awe inspiring. Spit and emotion rained down on Sam as Jeremy practically combusted above him.

He grabbed Sam's face with both hands and eyeballed him with raw ferocity. Biceps bulged, veins protruding on each side of his neck.

"No one…no one needs to tell me who my brother is," he hissed. "I know who my brother is. Dean knows who my brother is. And I swear to God, by the end of today, YOU will know who my brother is too."

SN

SN

SN

SN

The horizon beckoned with a sodium glow as Dean approached the Torino for the second time that day.

Bobby stood on the porch, frowning and repositioning his skip cap in agitation. A sudden movement from the left caught his attention and he raised his hand to catch Dean's attention.

Dean stopped too. Followed his gaze over to the maze of stacked cars and rusted wheels littering the yard.

Nothing moved.

Irritated, he bit his lip.

"I'll keep in touch…" He said.

But Bobby wasn't listening.

Bobby dipped an arm inside the door to grab a shotgun.

Dean opened the car door, balled up his jacket and threw it inside as he watched Bobby move slowly out into the yard.

He checked the time. Six hours to Broken Arrow. If he left now. He considered jumping into the car and just driving off…

With a sigh…he reached under the driver's seat and grabbed his own gun and rounded the hood to follow Bobby.

Columns of dead and battered vehicle husks stacked upon each other. Some straight, some yawning over to left or right. Some cars even teetered on the edge…just waiting for a rude gust of wind to push them over.

Dean scanned the rows, littered with engine parts and oil stains.

Then, something caught his eye.

Something smooth and clean. Instantly recognizable.

Something that made his heart pump faster, and the hair on his neck rise, because he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

Parked proud and silent.

Sleek and shining in the early evening sun.

The Impala.

The sight stopped Dean dead in his tracks.

Further ahead, Bobby had already leveled his gun at him.

"Jeremy don't want you to leave, boy," he said. Low and firm.

TBC

*Not any H/C in this chappy folks. Blood and guts to follow…


End file.
